Another Horcrux Down
by twowritehands
Summary: "Hermione stabbed it," Ron said... It wasn't quite that simple.


"Hermione stabbed it," Ron said. It wasn't quite that simple.

**AN: Here's a little something in honor of the 8****th**** movie midnight premiere that we are missing right now! This has been written for a while, but needed an ending. It's now or never, so here goes it….**

**Another Horcrux Down**

Harry and Luna left, racing out of the common room on the way to Ravenclaw Tower. The secret passageway from Hogsmeade opened up and spewed more of Dumbledore's Army into the Room of Requirement. The new arrivals looked around urgently, asking the room in general which way the fight was. They were received by Neville and the others.

"The bathroom!" Ron cried, slapping a hand to his forehead. Hermione frowned and pointed across the room. "Neville was saying something about the room providing a toilet. I think it's over-"

"No!" Ron grabbed her shoulders and turned her to face him. He had a wild expression. "The bathroom, Hermione!" he cried. Hermione was utterly bewildered, staring up at Ron with a mixture of fear and worry. Ron's face was spreading into a maniacal grin. He leveled his blue eyes on her and said two words in an excited whisper,

"_The Basilisk_!"

Hermione's eyes widened, she popped up onto her toes, her hands flying to her mouth, "The bathroom!" she cried. Her hand went instantly to the beaded bag shoved into the waist of her jeans. The cup—the _horcrux_—was in the bag. And venom was in the bathroom pipe-works.

Grabbing her hand in order to prevent separation in the now-packed-room, Ron made a run for the door pulling Hermione behind him. He knocked into people, making his own path. Hermione murmured apologies absently, knocking into several people of her own.

Once out into the hall, Ron paused to get his bearings, but Hermione grabbed the bottom hem of the back of his sweater and pulled him behind a statue just in time; A young teacher, whom neither of them recognized, hustled by, murmuring to herself, looking tired, frightened. As soon as she was out of sight, Hermione whispered, "We don't have a cloak, Ron. We have to be more careful."

"Right." Ron said. He had his bearings now. "This way."

The eyes of the portraits followed them as they raced by. Several of the inhabitants of the old frames recognized them and excitedly ran alongside them, eager to help Harry Potter's friends in any way possible. They could offer no help, however, when the two ducked into a girl's bathroom.

"Oh, _no_!" Hermione cried, skidding to a stop. "We can't speak Parseltongue!"

Ron swore. Hermione recognized his defeated tone. She slumped against a sink with her back to the mirror. Ron put a hand on either side of the sink beside her and let his head hang, loosing a string of soft curses again. "It was so brilliant," he said. "But we can't even get it open…"

Hermione wished she could think of something, but she'd never read any English-Parceltongue dictionaries. All she had to offer was, "Harry said that all he did was ask it to open."

Ron straightened suddenly, "Hermione, move."

She moved. Ron peered at the little snake insignia on the faucet. His brow was wrinkled in deep concentration. Hermione opened her mouth to ask what he was doing, but just as she did, a spitting, hacking, hissing noise escaped Ron's.

"_What_ was that?" She asked, half expecting a hairball to be in the sink.

Ron blushed, but cleared his throat and tried again. This time, there was more hissing and less hacking. Hermione understood that he was making snake noises, but thought that it was rather far fetched to hope that random snake noises would turn out to be the right combination of snake-language sounds.

Ron's second attempt failed, but then his third attempt produced a smooth snake-word, full of vowels and hissing, and the sink began to move.

"You did it!" Hermione cried.

Ron looked bewildered as he watched the pipes open up for their access.

"I—I just said what Harry said when he opened the locket!"

Hermione grabbed his hand. "Let's go!" And without a moment's more hesitation, she jumped into the pipe, pulling Ron with her.

It was just as filthy and slimy as the first time. Ron and Hermione slammed into one another two painful times before Hermione wrapped both arms around him. They shot out the bottom and rolled until they lost momentum. Ron's elbow was hurting. The pain reached all the way down into his wrist, which Hermione, laying beside him with her arms still around him, was laying on.

"_Maniac_!" Ron cried, getting to his feet and helping her up. "I was just about to tell you that we could cast hovering charms and float down but—"

"Hovering charms?" Hermione interrupted.

Ron looked up from massaging his elbow. "Yes. Hovering Charms. I didn't fancy tumbling down that pipe the first time and I didn't want to do it again."

"Oh." Hermione blushed. "I didn't think of that."

"Clearly." Ron looked around. Four pipes lead in four different directions. Hermione got to her feet and waited for Ron. He thought about it for a moment and headed down the appropriate one. At its end loomed the heap of rocks, which had separated him from Harry on their way to save Ginny. There was space enough at the top for them to squeeze through, though it was an extremely tight fit—they had all been just kids the first time.

Hermione took Ron's hand for balance on the way down the rocks. Ever since the locket's demise, Ron took notice of every time she did this and felt all of the doubts, all of the self-depreciating fears, fade away. Hope grew stronger every time she reached for him.

_Maybe_. The little voice in his heart whispered as they left the rocks behind them and continued to walk holding hands. _Maybe Harry was right. Maybe she does care. Maybe._

Hermione stopped walking, noticing the hatch first. It was metal, covered in carved snakes, and the only thing at the dead end of the tunnel.

"More Parceltongue, I should imagine," she said. She released his hand, to pull her hair off her neck; it was stifling hot and humid in the pipes.

Ron frowned at the door and repeated his third attempt. The door swung open. Hermione beamed at him. He tried for a humble expression, and failed, looking too proud to pull it off.

Hermione _laughed_—a string of music in this dark and dank place, and then bolted through the door. Ron followed, smiling.

"We have to hurry," she was saying. "We have to kill the bloody thing quick and get back to Harry—before he misses us for too long and does something stupid."

"Agreed." Ron said. He was already thinking of what waited in the Chamber of Secrets. Once they found the fangs, it would be time to kill a piece of Voldmort, and he was sure it wouldn't be any easier than that locket. "But there's something that Harry and I didn't tell you—"

What happened next happened fast and Ron's words were lost into the madness.

A great crack, the ground gave way, Ron was falling into a pipe below amid a rain of falling rock.

"Ron!"

He hit fast moving, and deep water. Hermione saw his red head sink and sweep away with the rumble of the floor. She lay there, looking over the side at the rushing water that no longer contained any hint of him—screaming after him, frantic. She had no idea what to do. Where did that water lead? It looked like a natural underground river. How deep was it? Were there rapids? Rocks? Was Ron still in one piece?

She couldn't see for the tears. She could hardly think for the worry. She frantically tried any spell she could think of, but nothing worked. She barely noticed the silvery dog that appeared before her until it spoke in Ron's voice.

"I'm fine. I washed into another pipe. I can see a way back up. We can't waste time. I'll meet you in the Chamber of Secrets. Be careful."

Then it was gone.

Hermione sighed with relief and dashed away her tears. Turning her back on the hole that had moments ago swallowed Ron, she broke into a run. At the end of the tunnel, she gasped.

The Chamber of Secrets.

She'd heard about it, but she'd never seen it. It was vast, containing giant statues of snakes, and the great evil face of Slytherin. The mouth was a gaping hole. The thing laying dead in the middle of the room left her with no doubts as to what had once came out of the hole.

The great basilisk was mostly rotted and eaten away. There was hardly anything left—except for the great jaw bone still brandishing rows of pointy, poisonous teeth. The stench of the decaying body must have been horrible at some point, but there was so little of it left now that it was easily manageable.

The sight of the great snake sent chills down her spine. The last time she saw it, she'd turned into stone. The cold pain, the stillness, the loss of _humanity_ that came with turning into rock often plagued her nightmares, or enveloped her when dementors were near.

"It's dead now," she said out loud, to calm herself as she ripped open the beaded bag and dug through it for the cup. As she did so, she looked around and saw that Ron hadn't made it yet.

Her hand landed on the cup. Her fingers found the metal and heat seared her flesh. She swore as twenty cups erupted into existence. She'd forgotten about the Gringotts curse!

She turned the bag upside down. Books, vials, lose change, clothes and goblets rained out. Being careful not to touch anymore of the cups, Hermione drew her wand and one simple transfiguration spell later, all the fake goblets were pebbles and the Horcrux—protected by dark magic—remained unchanged.

With another wave of her wand, she had a basilisk fang in hand. The cup began _jumping_. It _knew_ basilisk venom was near.

Hermione's heart was racing. There was no time to wait.

She had not forgotten what Harry had said about the Journal Horcrux fighting back. No doubt this one would, too.

She raised the fang, but just then a scream rent the air from far down the tunnel. The scream was the kind that ripped out of someone, a scream of pain.

_Ron_.

A moment later she saw that something was coming out of the cup.

It was her, a mirror image. It was wide-eyed. "He's dead." It said.

"No he's not." Hermione spat, but a cold hand had seized her heart and air rushed from her lungs. For a wild moment, she thought she was turning into stone again.

"But how do you know?" It said. "Go and check! You have to! What if he's alive and bleeding to death? What if he's lying under a pile of rock?"

Hermione set her jaw, straightened her spine. "Ron is not dead and even if he were—"Her voice caught. "He would still be with me. He would never leave me—loved ones remain with us beyond death."

With her words came a tiny thread of belief, and with the belief came a ray of hope, then love, and the image of the Fake Hermione wavered.

The Fake Hermione tilted its head, a pitying look on its face. "Oh? But he didn't love you back."

Hermione didn't miss the past tense, but she said through clenched teeth, "He wouldn't _have_ to love me back—I would still keep him with me."

The Horcrux wavered again, more violently this time, and Hermione seized her opportunity. She stabbed at the cup, but it _leapt_ _out of the way_, and the knuckle of her thumb grazed the polished metal.

Cups sprang into existence, some of them touching Hermione's hands and multiplying. The Horcrux was suddenly lost, once again, in the decoys.

_It was clever_.

Hermione's eyes brimmed with tears. She swore repeatedly under her breath. Her heart pounded painfully. Her fingers stung from the blistering burns.

"Hermione!" Ron called. A moment later he was there. His hand closed around her elbow, pulling her up and away from the cups.

"Stop letting them touch you!" he cried.

"Oh, _Ron_!" Hermione cried, throwing her arms around him. "I thought—"

Her voice caught. She couldn't complete her sentence. Ron, dripping wet, muddy, shrugged. "I'm still breathing."

A strange laugh, the fruits of her relief, escaped her half disguised as a sob. "Good," she said and reached for his hand. "Because—"

"Hermione," he said, moving his hand out of her reach. "I heard what you said a moment ago and—you should know how I feel."

Hermione's cheeks burned as she realized exactly what he'd heard. She looked to the ground. Ron continued, "Hermione I don't think of you that way."

Hermione's breath left her and she suddenly wished the cups would continue multiplying and burry her. Their heat would be a relief from this.

"Oh." She managed.

He shuffled his feet awkwardly. "You—You're like a sister." He said, his tone pleading. "I mean, I've known you too long, you know? Don't be upset about it—" he could see the tears dripping. "It's just that you always run me down. You get on my nerves. You're too smart. You aren't pretty enough…"

Back in the tunnel, Ron's ankle was swollen. He'd just made it up a steep incline—hard to do with his elbow throbbing every time he reached out to support himself against the sharp rocks—and he had started to run toward the Chamber of Secrets—toward Hermione and the Horcrux they would destroy together—when he'd stepped badly on the uneven ground and twisted his ankle.

So close to defeating a piece of the darkest wizard in the world.

Hampered by a sprained ankle.

That didn't sound like the kind of man that deserved Hermione.

He'd been tempted, at first, to try and fix it magically. But healing spells were beyond him. Like Harry, he left that kind of thing up to Hermione. He didn't want to risk it. Having no bones in his foot would be a lot worse.

He couldn't just twist on the spot and apparate—he didn't know his destination. Splinching, even with a known destination, was too common of an apparating-outcome for him to risk it.

So he walked on it.

It hurt like hell. He wished he at least knew a spell to mute the pain, but he couldn't recall one. He walked as fast he could. When he arrived in the Chamber of Secrets, he barely took time to notice the statues or the rotting carcass. The first thing he saw was Hermione crying wildly, screaming. She wasn't alone. She was surrounded by a pile of cups and he, Ron, was standing in front of her—his feet strangely rooted in one cup—and he was screaming back at her,

"I just don't love you, don't you get it?" The Fake Him was saying. Its voice was cold. Mean.

"How could I _ever_ love you? Look at you! It's pathetic! You're too skinny, you're hair is too big, you have those ugly bags under your eyes and your hands are old–lady hands! You're _ugly_, Hermione."

"No—No—No" She was sobbing, she had sunk to her knees, her face in her hands. "No—I'm not. I'm not."

"Yes you are. It's because you're a _mudblood_. How can I ever be with something like _you_-"

Ron's—the real Ron's—scream echoed off the stone all around them. Neither Hermione nor the Fake Ron seemed to hear. The Fake Ron continued to ridicule Hermione, laugh at her for ever thinking he had ever even looked at her, cared for her.

Hermione screamed and cried on the stone floor. The Fake Ron grew clearer, stronger.

Ron no longer felt his ankle, or his banged up elbow, or the cold of the water that soaked his clothes. He ran across the room, throwing himself between Hermione and the Horcrux. He grabbed her, pulled her up, "Don't listen to it, Hermione!" he cried.

Whatever spell the thing had her under broke. Ron saw clarity dawn in her eyes as she looked at him. She was trembling. Behind him, the Horcrux was screaming in rage. Ron held Hermione's gaze, "Don't listen to it, Hermione," he said.

She still held the fang in one hand—hadn't dropped it yet, but didn't remember it, either. Ron closed her fingers around it. "Kill it," he said.

Just then the Horcrux—strong from torturing Hermione, surrounded them—there were suddenly several Fake Rons; all of them identical to the real one, right down to the swollen ankle.

They began saying things. Some of them continued to shout nasty things, others began saying nice things, romantic things, some of them shouted what the real Ron had just said, "Don't listen to it, Hermione."

"Don't trust it, Hermione!"

"It's not the real _me_! Listen to _me_!"

The one saying the nicest, most romantic things pulled her away, sweeping her well out of Real Ron's grasp and covering her mouth with his. She pushed him off. Real Ron could see it: She was confused, terrified. Tears streaked her cheeks.

Rons stood all around. Some of them looked cold and mean. Others looked awkward and flustered, others laughed, others pleaded, other's swore and ordered her to think like a smart witch and look at _him_!

Real Ron stood still and did absolutely nothing.

_Come on, Hermione_. He thought. _Use your head. See it. See it. I know you can_.

She was turning on the spot, crying. She pressed her hands to her eyes and screamed for them all to shut up, but their cries only grew louder, more fevered. She fell to her knees again.

She stayed there for several long moments.

She looked up.

She looked all around—not at their faces, but at their feet. Real Ron smiled and though he made no movements, nor shouted anything, he gave her a triumphant yell in his head because he saw it in her face. She had knowledge on her side. She was the witch he knew, the strong and capable girl he loved; she was no longer a victim to the Horcrux's cruel tricks.

Like Ron already had, Hermione had realized that all of the Fake Ron's were connected by shadowy ghost-like substance that caked the floor and poured out of only one of the cups. All of the Rons were connected to the Horcrux.

Except one.

She raised her eyes and met Real Ron's square on.

He nodded.

She raised the fang and rushed at the cup.

The Fake Rons turned ugly—no longer taking the shapes of people, they just became shadows filled with hate and rage. The fang pierced the side of the goblet. A hellish shriek filled the chamber, a long drawn out cry of anguish and pain.

In rushing the real cup, Hermione had knocked several out of the way, all of which multiplied rapidly, but it didn't matter, Hermione had a grip on the real one now that she wasn't going to lose, even if the metal seared her flesh, even if fake goblets poured in a never ending stream into existence. She held on tight and stabbed again, and again, and again.

The screams ended. Hermione dropped the fang. Some cups were still multiplying, singing her clothes, blistering her hands, as they were pushed against her in all of the madness.

The pain in Ron's ankle was tenfold, but he ran to her. He grabbed her and pulled her out of the burning metal and well away from it. She sagged into him, shaking, sobbing. Unable to hold his and her weight on a bad ankle, Ron sank to the ground with his arms around her.

He recalled the things the Horcrux had been saying. He knew what it meant. It was close to what the locket had said to him.

Too close.

Tears of his own dampened his cheeks. He felt similarly to as he had right after his own triumph—really, really bad.

He held her tight, searching frantically for what to say. In the moments after he'd stabbed the locket, he'd been lost in a dark and troubling place full of pain and sorrow. Harry's words had brought him back, reminded him of the truth.

Someone had to bring her back, someone had to remind her of the truth.

His heart was pounding from the adrenaline that came with fighting a piece of the dark lord, but with something else, too.

_What if?_ A different voice in his heart whispered, _What if she doesn't want to hear it?_

_That doesn't__ matter_. He thought, fighting that slither of doubt away. _She should know._

"Hermione, don't believe that thing," he said. His voice was thick. "It—It was just—it was just trying to weaken you."

"It knew what I feared most." Hermione said in a choked whisper. If she wasn't so close to him, he couldn't have made sense of the words. "That—That you—" She couldn't finish, but Ron didn't need her to. Upon hearing the half-confession, tears pricked his eyes.

_She loves me_. The whisper in his heart which took notice of Hermione when she took his hand, or laughed, or fell asleep reading, wasn't a whisper anymore. It was a lion's roar. _She loves me_!

"Don't fear it," he said, awkwardly.

She laughed nervously and looked up at him. Tears shown in her eyes, which were so big and so brown at this proximity that Ron hiccupped. She didn't say anything. Neither did he.

Nothing happened for a few seconds.

Or was it a few years?

Hermione suddenly sat up. "You're _drenched_!" She cried in a weak attempt at changing the subject. In moving away from him so quickly, she jostled his elbow and his ankle. He winced. She gasped and apologized.

He explained what had happened. She shook her head, tutting her disapproval. "I told you that you should learn the basics." She sat back and waved her wand.

The elbow straightened itself out, and in one hot flash of heat, was back to normal. A moment later, so was the ankle. Ron stood, happy to find that it held his weight easily. "Hermione, you're brilliant," he said.

The compliment—or maybe it was the tone of voice—was too close to the deeply vulnerable things that had just happened, the things she was apparently desperate to avoid because she nearly cut him off with,

"Now for the cloths." She waved the wand and his cloths dried. Ron felt another urge to praise, but bit it back, saying instead, "Your burns."

He'd noticed the angry red blisters on her hands. She turned and picked her way through the outside fringe of the pile of cups until she reached a place were clothes and books were strewn across the dungeon floor. After a moment of kicking things around, she returned with the vial of Dittany. Ron helped her apply the drops onto her burns.

He focused on what he was doing, but he felt her eyes on him, watching him as he worked. She knew he felt her watching. She was thankful that he didn't look up.

A part of her wanted him to look into her eyes, bring back the moment that she'd ruined by pretending soaked cloths were a problem. She wanted to tell him-everything.

Yet he didn't look up from tenderly smearing the Dittany on her burns.

And she was glad.

She found herself terrified of all that lay beyond the two of them getting it all out there, said and real and wonderful.

But then what?

After nearly two years of harboring secret feelings for him in between trying to stay alive, she had never once considered what it would be like—in the long run—if he truly returned the sentiments.

Now that he had—or _practically_ had, anyway—the great unknown was stretching out in front of them. Hermione was a planner, a thinker. She wasn't comfortable with the unknown.

She _knew_ how to be a friend, a daughter, a student. She _didn't_ know how to be a girlfriend or—more. If he wrapped his arms around her and confessed that he loved her, it would be just heavenly, but after they finished this war—then what?

No one had ever taught her how to love so fiercely yet keep on living. It could be done, she knew, but she didn't know how. That was why she'd changed the subject, why she was relieved that Ron had taken the hint and was acting as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

It only took a minute or two for Ron to apply the healing potion on all of her burns. By the time her skin was healed, her confusion had already reached epic proportions. Ron put the stopper back in the vial and shoved it into his pocket. He looked up, then, smiling,

"Now let's stop wasting time and go help Harry!" he said.

"Wait!" Hermione cried after taking a few running steps after him back down the tunnel.

"What now?" Ron asked.

"The _fangs_!" Hermione cried. "We still have more Horcrux's to kill—Harry could use the fangs!"

"Oh yeah!" Ron slapped a hand to his forehead. They ran back and collected as many as they could possibly carry…

Back above ground, with people running around, a battle shaking the castle, Harry screaming at them for disappearing on him like that, and important Horcrux-related-plans burning through her mind, Hermione had just gotten her head clear.

Then he wanted to save the house elves.

The war, which was raging around them, didn't matter.

The questions, which had frightened her earlier, didn't matter.

All that mattered was that she wanted him to know—to know it from her and not that Horcrux.

She'd never kissed a boy before—she'd _been kissed_ before, by Krum, but she'd never been the one to do the kissing.

That didn't matter, either.

He'd thought they'd silently agreed not to deal with this right now. He'd sensed she wasn't ready to talk about it. He'd taken a rain check on it, had even been a little relieved to do so. After all, he was just one guy; he couldn't deal with a war _and_ this—whatever _this_ was—at the same time. He could only deal with one at a time and the war was much more important, wasn't it?

But then she was kissing him.

And there was nothing to deal with because the world had fallen away. She was kissing him, he was kissing her, they were clinging to each other, and it was just so natural that there was nothing to have to deal with. There was just her and the lion in his chest roaring.

"Oy!" Harry's voice was from far away. Hermione broke the kiss, blushed fiercely as Harry reminded them of the real world around them. "There's a war going on!"

Back in the present, back in reality, Ron was breathless. "So it's now or never," he said. Hermione bit her lower lip and smiled up at him, big brown eyes shining. He hiccupped again—he would never get over those eyes—and gave her another kiss, this one brief, before releasing her to retrieve the fangs.

Death Eaters murdered people standing right beside them, fire, horcruxes, Fred died, Harry was no where to be found. Scared, so scared.

Time was given to gather the dead—_so many_ familiar faces unmoving and cold. Lupin and Tonks were dead. Tired, so, so tired.

A voice filled up the world: lies that Harry was dead.

Hate, outrage—will not believe it.

_P__roof_ that Harry was dead laying limp at Voldemort's feet. Rage, sorrow, fear, anger, fighting back, fighting back to the death.

Harry—alive and well.

Tom Riddle—dead.

Could it be so simple? Could it end so quickly? The room erupted into celebration. _It's over_.

Ron looked over at Hermione. The shock he felt was reflected on her face, but dawning through that shock was triumph, relief, and uncontainable happiness.

He scooped her up and spun her around, the lion's roar in his chest escaping his lips, tearing at his throat, but it didn't matter. He was laughing. He was crying. He was hugging Harry, his parents, his brothers, his sister, his friends, random strangers.

Just as thoughts of those he could never hug again threatened to destroy this hard-earned relief, delicate hands grabbed him by the ears and Hermione was kissing him again.

It all fell away.

**AN: yeah, ****still not sure about the ending. Like JK (apparently) I just don't have the time or the energy to dwell on the pain of losing Fred—may he rest in peace. How was it?**


End file.
